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Messages - Puppyfight

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Your Stories / The First And Last Time I Cut Myself
« on: 06:56 PM, 03/ 7/19 »
I want you to understand something.

All of my friends cut themselves and I hated it. I hugged them, I cried with them, I took the time to understand their pain and helped many of their scars heal, as well as, prevented new ones.

I did this all while I lived a life of fear. And I never told them, because they didn’t need to know. They didn’t need more pain, more reasons to cut.

Two of my closest friends were addicted to cutting themselves and they knew it, they talked about the release, to them it was their chance to feel SOMETHING when they felt nothing, and it felt so good. I’d dare to call it close to an “off the wall, greatest orgasm ever”.

Well, I told myself I would never do it, that I didn’t need to and that my situation was different.

It wasn’t, in fact, many might say it was worse.

At school I was a loner who hung out with loners, I was low energy and liked it that way. At home I was an unfeeling robot, chores, chores, chores, eat, chores, homework, chores, whipped with a belt, shower, bed and cry myself to sleep.

No one knew I was becoming suicidal. I told no one.

No one knew I saw myself jump out my 3rd story window. I told no one.

No one knew my step-grandfather was a pedophile. I told no one.

No one knew he tried to coerce me into his bedroom. I told no one.

So the day I finally started giving into my mind’s desires would of course come. There was nothing stopping it.

My friend showed me how to remove the blade from a sharpener, but I used a razor.

My body was shaking so much that when the blade touched my skin, I didn’t even have to move to create multiple cuts, 3 of those cuts were deep enough to bleed. I bled so much.

I bled more than I was prepared for. I was crying as softly as I could, the cuts stung like hell and I couldn’t keep all the blood in the sink because my body didn’t have the strength to stand.

So I collapsed in front of the sink, hitting my head on the way down. I sat criss-cross and stared down at my wrist. There was a fascination there. And in that moment, I understood why. It felt so nice, I wasn’t thinking of anything else but the blood that ran down and stained my socks. The stinging sensation, the unending rivers of red. It was so comforting, like cuddling with someone you love. All my worries were gone. Now all I needed was for someone to come in here with a gun and shot me in the back of the head.

This only lasted moments.

The loud opening of the front door made me jump, my stepmother’s voice, welling fight or flight. It was so slow, but so fast, I was on a time limit.

I cleaned the bathroom of every splotch of blood that I could find. Rushed out of the room, a bandage around my wrist. Went into my room and put on a new long sleeve shirt and some bracelets to hide the bulkiness of my bandage and then ran downstairs to greet the woman who punished me of being a burden on her. My Stepmother never knew and I never did it again.

I look back at that time a lot, it still haunts me. I won't cut. I don’t need to cut. It’s honestly, not helpful. I understand the reason, I get the feeling, but, it won't solve my problems and I’ve found more productive ways to escape the pain of life.

Your Stories / The Ghost On My Door
« on: 03:59 PM, 09/ 5/18 »
I’ve experienced a lot of abuse from people in my life. Most of the abuse happened when I was a child and it caused me to hallucinate, adding to my child brain’s belief in ghosts.

I was still learning the alphabet when my stepfather was hurting my mother and myself. I was once held by my foot with my body in the air, then he slammed my head into the ground. Events like this happened nearly weekly. I remember hiding with my mother in her room, putting furniture in front of the door and him slamming his body against it until he tired himself out and left the house. I remember hiding under couches and other pieces of furniture so that I could escape the world for hours at a time.

One night, however, I’d awoken to a loud sound, like a shotgun went off right next to my ear. I was shaking in my blanket, burrito style like always, only my head poked out.

I could barely move. Fear controlled my body as I looked around what little I could see of my room. There was nothing but ominous shadows as the light from my window played tricks on my mind.  My clothes looked like tall abstract monsters in my closet, which made my fight or flight activate, but I was too frozen to move.

Then it happened, a low gravelly voice spoke to me in a language I didn’t know. It felt as if it was coming from inside my head. The blanket felt as if it was being pushed on, like an elephant was slowly sitting on me, so I shakily turned my head. My eyes never made it to the foot of my bed however as they became glued to my door.

In the middle of the door was a large cartoon clown face. It seemed to be stuck there like one of those cardboard cutouts kids stick their faces in. Thanks to my fear of clowns  I just had to scream, “Mom! Mommy, please help!”

The lips of this clown moved and said things that I could not understand, but I could feel its wants and it wanted to eat me. I heard my mother try to open the door from the other side, saying something about it being locked. This only added to my fear as I forgot that I had started locking my door from the inside so that I’d be safe from my stepfather’s abuse. By now I was crying uncontrollably, my eyes were blurry and I could barely hear. I knew they were trying to tell me to unlocked the door, but I only replied back, “I can’t, I can’t because it wants to eat me!”

I was a terrified child, but my mother was on the other side of that door so I got out of bed, barely keeping on my blanket that protected me from all the evil monsters in my room. I tripped on my blanket many times as I walked in the dark and barely recognized the sounds of my mother and stepfather speaking from the other side of the door. After a moment it almost felt like I was compelled to get closer to the door, to the clown’s open mouth.

I didn’t know, but my stepfather had been telling me to get away from the door, but all I heard was the strange noises the clown had been making in my ears.

The door shook twice before coming off its hinges. I fell backward as the clown face was crushed, blood pooled from beneath the door and seeped into the cracks of the wooden floorboards. My blanket broke my fall, snot ran into my mouth and tears staining my chubby cheeks.

My mother pushed aside the broken door and wrapped me up in a loving embrace. That night I slept with my mother in my bed, no door, no clown and I was facing away from my closet in my mother’s arms.

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